Oblivion and Beyond
by Bad Mum
Summary: "Get over it," they say. "Move on." George and Angelina know that that isn't possible. In the bar of the George and Dragon and in a London square, they try to forget. Rated M for sex, alcohol and substance misuse.


_So, back in the days of "A Day in the Life..." when the Sober Universe was young, and many of us were railing against JKR's official pairings, I said I'd never write George and Angelina. Ah, time moves on, and I can believe in them now, even if their relationship is not going to be easy. Never say never._

_If you're looking for one of my fluffy Weasley stories, step away now. This is anything but. Rated M for sex and for alcohol and substance misuse._

_George and Ange and their world belong to the incomparable Ms Rowling. I'm merely borrowing them for a while._

**Oblivion and Beyond**

She finds him where she expects, where she has found him before, in the corner of the bar at the George and Dragon a mile or so from Diagon Alley. She sits down beside him without a word, and the barman, whose name is Dave and who is used to them by now, pours her a double unasked and refills George's glass.

Dave does not try to talk to them now, though in the early days he did, laughing at George for drinking himself into oblivion in a pub bearing his own name, calling Angelina "beautiful", and telling her she reminds him of a girl called Maureen who broke his heart twenty years ago. Still, he watches them with somewhat irksome attention, as he has done throughout the long hot summer and into the autumn, and Angelina feels dimly that it is because his own story with Maureen did not end well and he wishes better for them. She does not tell him that they have no chance of a happy ending, that they are living in a place beyond second bests already.

There comes a point when Dave will not serve them anymore, and they go out together into the Muggle streets, crowded even at this time of night, where they are unnoticed as part of the crowd. They walk hand in hand from habit rather than anything else, not talking, dodging the theatre-goers and tourists, ignoring the dealer at the end of the dark alley who has sold to them once or twice. The magical route to forgetfulness is better and easier, no messing around with needles and tourniquets and finding veins. His are easy enough, but hers are hard to find, and she had bruises for days afterwards. The potions he buys from the apothecary in Knockturn do the same job far more simply.

The grassy square is empty at this time of night, although in daylight it will be full of friends meeting and laughing, office workers with their greasy lunches, nannies pushing buggies. There is a bench in the far corner under a plane tree where they sit and drink the potion. He passes it to her first, having been well schooled in "ladies first", and she drinks, scrupulously leaving half for him, which he swallows in one gulp. They sit, looking up through the tarnishing leaves at the sky, until the blood begins to fizz in their veins and the colours of the streetlights make rainbow auras with diamonds and rubies at the centre, until they can no longer feel their hands or feet, until they no longer remember why they are here. It is always she who reaches for him first, but he responds quickly enough, and they crawl into the bushes, pulling at clothing and kissing and clawing at each other with something beyond need or lust. He has her on her back, and is biting rather than kissing her lips, neck and shoulders, but she is as strong as he, and it is she who is astride him when they come together, her nails raking his face and chest. She calls out his brother's name as she comes, and he scarcely minds, because isn't he the reason why there are here, why they live like this? He rolls away from her and vomits bile and stale whiskey into the earth.

When the fizzing of the potion begins to abate a little, they pull on their clothes and stagger to their feet. He walks her home – he is still his mother's son after all – before returning to the flat above the shop. Sometimes, blessedly, they let him be alone there, but more often than not there is a brother snoring on the settee in the tiny living room. There is an empty bed, of course, but he will not let anyone sleep in it. Tonight it is Percy who wakes as he hears him mount the stairs and who squints groggily at him, his glasses forgotten on the floor beside the settee, in an attempt to discern how bad this evening has been. Percy makes him tea and tries to talk to him, but soon gives it up as a bad job, and nods off again, leaving George to try to sleep for what is left of the night, aided by another Knockturn potion that brings sleep at the expense of nightmares of his brother's death repeated over and over as he watches helplessly.

In the morning, he pulls on the vivid robes and works in a shop he scarcely cares about because it is what is expected of him, "what Fred would want" - as if anyone really knows that. Miles away, Angelina's coach gives her a final warning about concentration. She will be off even the reserve team if her game does not improve.

Their friends and families have tried of course, are still trying, to bring them back to something approaching normality, to help them find a way forward in lives which they feel would have been better ended with his in the heat of the battle. But this victory which feels like defeat seems to be beyond them. They cannot find a way forward, nor can those who care for them.

But they keep trying. Two days before Angelina's birthday, Alicia insists on a "girls' night out", and she and Katie and Leanne drag her to a Muggle night club, where – after a few drinks – even Angelina dances and sings and generally makes a fool of herself. In Katie's flat afterwards, they drink Diet Coke and eat bad Chinese food, and the girls gang up to tell her that enough is enough, that it has been nearly six months, that it is time she moved forward even if she cannot get over losing Fred. For some reason, although she has heard it before, from them, from her family, from her coaches and team mates, this time the message gets through. She will not get over it, any more than George will, but perhaps it is time to move forward.

The next day, she goes to Fred's grave after practice and lays a posy of yellow daisies, tracing his name on the stone with her finger, staring at the engraving until the autumn sun dazzles her and she feels tears on her cheeks that she did not know she was shedding. George has been here recently – there is an orange windmill pushed into the soft ground of the grave, which emits sparks and a high whistle as the wind turns it. Someone else has been too – there is another bunch of flowers, scarlet and gold, Gryffindor colours, and an England Quidditch scarf draped over the gravestone. Perhaps Charlie has come home.

The next day, on owl brings her a card from George before she is even dressed, and a scrawled note. "Come out with me to eat tonight. Let's do something normal for a change. Just friends."

It is the furthest thing from a date, but it takes four changes of clothes and a lot of advice from Alicia before she is ready to go out. George meets her at the Leaky, and they drink warm white wine before moving on to the new restaurant at the end of Diagon Alley and eating prawns and pasta and chocolate cake, washed down by lemonade, because suddenly more wine seems a bad idea to both of them. He has brought her pink carnations and chocolates, and a gold and silver scarf of a fabric so light she can hardly feel it against her skin as he puts it around her neck. They do not talk as they eat, stealing glances at each other as if they are teenagers on a first date, rather than friends who have known each other for nearly half their lives.

Over coffee, however, she reaches out and takes his hand.

"This is nice," she says. "It's normal. What brought it on?"

He blushes and looks away, pulling his hand back. "Charlie," he admits. "He read me the riot act last night, and somehow it got through." He looks up and her eyes meet hers, almost shyly. "He said he'd talked to Alicia too."

She laughs mirthlessly. "Figures."

They are silent again, and he pays the bill and helps her with her coat and walks her home without saying anything more. They do not hold hands, merely walking shoulder to shoulder. Friends. On her doorstep, when she will go in, he turns her to face him, eye to eye. They are much the same height.

"Can we do this?" he asks, and his voice cracks.

She feels tears stinging her eyes and she nods. "We'll try," she whispers. Then she kisses him gently on the lips and turns and goes through the door without looking back.


End file.
